


you don’t have to be a ghost here among the living, you are flesh and blood, and you deserve to be loved and you deserve what you are given, and oh how much

by goreds



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: M/M, hickey is a rat bastard, i finished the terror less than ten hours ago and i feel some kind of way, very much not a fix-it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:55:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22048987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goreds/pseuds/goreds
Summary: Francis wonders what will become of James's spirit and dreams of him happy and healthy.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 4
Kudos: 49





	you don’t have to be a ghost here among the living, you are flesh and blood, and you deserve to be loved and you deserve what you are given, and oh how much

Francis just holds James’s body for what seems like an eternity before calling for Bridgens. But Francis doesn’t need Bridgens to make official what he knows solidly: James is dead and gone, and what Francis is holding is just a shell. Just a corpse. Like all the other bodies that _Terror_ and _Erebus_ have strewn behind them. That he had a hand in James’s death means very little to him. He sought to give a dignified death to a dignified man, even if it wasn’t dignified in the end.

Francis thinks about how rarely he and James had made physical, skin-to-skin contact, but there he was, massaging his second’s throat so the fluid would go down. So James would die, gently, without more pain.

So James would die.

James wanted it this way, Francis tells himself--James wanted even more, to be fed to the near-starving men as opposed to the lead-ridden cans that had killed him in the end. Francis refused that. James said he wasn’t Christ, but in that moment, attempting to sacrifice his body for the good of his men, Francis felt like he was close to the presence of God, even if he doesn’t believe any longer.

James is hot to the touch, sweating through his garments, through the blanket, even though he’s dead. Francis wonders how long the heat will last. No, soon James will be cold. Except it’s not James, Francis reminds himself; for James lives on as a spirit somewhere. Maybe James will be forever trapped in this Arctic hell, condemned for another lifetime to wander aimlessly among the snow and sometimes the rocks.

Francis doesn’t like that image. He would much rather see James in London, flitting about society parties, giving women the frights and men the chills. But James would be a friendly spirit, as he was so often in life.

Francis wishes he could have taken James to Ireland, to see the rolling green hills and the beautiful blue skies, much different from the dinginess of London. Maybe James had been there before--he never asked.

There was a great deal Francis had never asked James. There was a great deal he would never be able to ask him.

After Bridgens takes over preparing the body for burial, Francis tries to get some sleep. It proves to be a near-impossible task, but he falls asleep eventually. He finds himself dreaming of the Carnivale, and James in that ridiculous costume, with the Northern Lights all around them. The Carnivale never catches fire and no one dies.

James comes up to him in the dream, healthier in death than Francis ever _really_ knew him in life.

“Hello, Francis, how are you holding up?” James’s expression turns grim as if he knows his ultimate fate.

“I’m burying a friend tomorrow. A brother. How the hell do you think I feel?” Francis can feel himself scowling, not that he ever wants to scowl at James again.

“I know. It will be hard. But you’ll get through it.” James clasps Francis on the shoulder. “You’ll get through all of what’s coming. You’ll survive, because that’s what you do.”

“James, I--” Francis wants to say something overly affectionate, but it gets caught in his throat.

“This is a dream, Francis. You can say whatever you want.”

“You...you will live on in my memory, friend. I’ll keep you alive, no matter what.”

“A lofty ambition.”

“But a true one.”

James gives a soft smile. “I know you will.” And, totally unexpectedly, he kisses Francis on the forehead.

Francis awakes with a start, the feeling of James’s soft lips on his forehead, just lingering. The sun is starting to filter through his tent.

He is burying James today. This morning.

As he lingers over the body, he tells the men that he hopes anyone who comes along will respect the body. But he knows Hickey is out there, the savage. That bastard will do anything.

And when he sees James’s boots on that bastard in the traitors’ camp, he feels sick. But then he reminds himself; James was not that body, that flesh any longer. James will remain in his mind, forever beautiful, forever kind, forever himself.

James’s soul won’t be trapped in the Arctic, nor London. James’s soul will live on in him. And that gives him a reason to keep fighting.


End file.
